The case of the Viennese tiara
by HollyHop
Summary: Set after Sherlock's return and Mary's death. John and Sherlock are back in their old haunt in Baker Street. A new case captures Sherlock's attention and Sherlock captures John's. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is set after Sherlock's return and Mary's death. John and Sherlock are back in their old haunt at Baker Street and things seem to be returning to normal. When I say normal… But something is different and John doesn't want Sherlock to know. Sherlock/John

Please read and review!

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't earn

The case of the Viennese Tiara

I'm writing up this case, even though Sherlock does not approve of me doing so. He constantly moans about my blog and how he wants only the perfectly solved cases to be written up and not the unsolved or botched ones. But I feel that people do want to read about those as well, as they make my friend seem more human in the readers' eyes.

Blog Entry no.1

We received a visitor in our rooms one early morning in November. The sky had taken on this particular steely grey that comes before a thunderstorm, when the air tastes of blood and metal and the wind whips hats off heads and umbrellas out of hands. I had just settled down with a nice cup of tea, when the doorbell rang rather insistently and a lot longer than was usually the case. The matter at hand seemed urgent. A few moments later, a gentleman stood inside our living room with windswept hair and breathing heavily. To me he seemed to be around fiftyish, with a thickening around the waist that is so common among men who live a steady life in a well-paid job and have a caring wife to look after them. I would have thought him to be rather well-off, judging from his suit, possibly occupying a responsible position in a large company. In his hand he held an umbrella and his face was rather, how shall I put it, simple. A round, yet not unpleasant, face that had once been handsome, but was now afflicted by age and possibly too much drink.

I knew that Sherlock was watching me as I assessed our visitor, wanting me to make my own deductions the way he had taught me over the years. Later, I knew, he would force me to repeat them to him and then disprove every single one of them with his own more accurate thoughts on our client. Well, I say client, but I haven't even told you why the gentleman had come to Sherlock Holmes and in what affaire he needed assistance. Our visitor was eager to change this circumstance, though.

"I was told that you are a trustworthy and reliable man." The man's eyes flickered from Sherlock to me, as if he didn't hold the same opinion about my person. Sherlock pointed the bow of his violin at me, which he was still holding in his right hand, after being interrupted during a particularly difficult piece by Liszt he was trying out on me when the bell rang.

"This is Dr. Watson, my associate, and you can regard him as trustworthy as myself in every way. Would you like to sit down?"

The man nodded and fell heavily into a chair, still wearing his coat. His trousers were slightly speckled with mud at the hem. I knew from a glance that Sherlock had seen it too and was wondering what he would make of it. I knew by now to attach considerable importance even to the smallest aspect and therefore stored this little tidbit of information in my head for later.

"Now, Mr. Hardy, how may I be of assistance." Sherlock was packing away his violin into its case and therefore didn't catch the violent start our client gave at the mention of his name. Being familiar with Sherlock's methods I, of course, knew that he had observed something I hadn't and was already much further along in solving this case, than the entire London Police Force would have been.

"But … how do you know my name." Mr. Hardy blinked uncomprehendingly from Sherlock to me and then back to Sherlock. I knew what was to follow and decided to get a cup for our guest and pour him some tea.

"Clearly you have come here in a hurry, so much is obvious from the state of your shirtsleeves. A man in your position would not leave the buttons on his shirt undone when going to work and clearly that's where you were headed this early. Now your trousers, they are speckled with mud, so you came here on foot, despite the rain. Why would you do that, unless you were in such a hurry, you didn't want to risk a cabride through London's early morning rush hour, which would certainly have taken a lot longer. Your coat is expensive and so are your shoes. So a good job. Where though? The golden signet ring on your right hand indicates that you are a member of the Diogenes Club. A quite elusive, yet rather small community of rich and influential Londoners. And there's a coat of arms stitched into your jacket, rather obviously a modern invention, not an inherited peerage. It is an intricate expansion of the logo used by the Alderman Bank, which graced the papers quite a lot recently. Having a bit of financial trouble, are we? So you, sir, are Mr. Rupert Hardy, owner and CEO of the Alderman Bank."

Sherlock's eyes flickered towards mine for a second, looking for comfirmation of his brilliance. I acquiesced to his request and my eyes burned into his. Silence filled the room, until it was broken by the first mighty clap of thunder outside our window, making Mr. Hardy and me jump.

"So." Sherlock sat down in his chair by the fire, opposite Mr. Hardy, who had taken mine. "What can I do for you?"

"I…" Mr. Hardy was still stunned by Sherlock's chain of deductions that led him to expose our guest's identity and his eyes flitted around the room nervously. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, before starting on his narrative.

"I came here to ask assistance in a very delicate and highly confidential matter. I was approached by the administrator of the late Signora Montifiore. He has in his possession a priceless piece." Here he stopped shortly for effect, before intending to reveal his true intentions in coming here. Sherlock was sitting with his hands steepled and his head bowed slightly. His eyes were closed, as if he had fallen asleep but momentarily his lips parted and his eyes opened again. His voice was rather dark as he spoke.

"The Viennese tiara." Mr. Hardy and I stared at Sherlock for a moment, although I was familiar enough with his methods to allow me to appreciate his train of thought better than our guest. Nevertheless, I was constantly surprised at his ability to foreknow the course of a conversation.

"How …" Mr. Hardy stopped dead, for it was clear that Sherlock was familiar with Italian aristocracy, as well as the British and had already heard about the tiara.

"Never mind how, tell me more about the why. Why do you come to me, carrying such an illustrious item upon your person, where anyone could steal it."

Mr. Hardy dropped his head in admittance. His hand reached into his coat and brought forth a red velvety case, eight by eight inches, with a golden clasp at the front. He turned the case towards us and opened it. Inside nestled a gleaming tiara, with a rather large ruby affixed to the middle and smaller diamonds descending from it on either side, like soldiers guarding the precious jewel.

"This tiara was entrusted to me for safekeeping at our bank a month ago. I keep it not in the general safe, but in the private one in my office. Last week, I found a piece of broken glass on the floor next to my desk. I thought nothing of it and threw it in the bin." Sherlock made a sound like a snort at this, clearly disapproving of the loss of valuable evidence.

"The day after, I noticed that some of the furniture had been carefully moved and then put back to where they supposedly stood, but I know my office by heart. I know when chairs and tables have been moved around. I interrogated the cleaners as to why my furniture had been moved, but they all insisted that any item touched by them, had only been moved in favour of hoovering." At this Sherlock and I exchanged a glance. I knew that cleaners were notoriously easy to bribe and that their statements could easily have been a lie. A small smile played upon Sherlock's lips, as he saw me coming to the same conclusion as he had. I tried to prevent myself from reciprocating the gesture but failed, which produced a quick flash of pleasure within Sherlock's eyes.

"Someone has been inside my office, trying to locate my safe. And I think it fair to assume that this person or persons won't give up, until they have found it and stolen the tiara. I therefore removed the jewel instantly and have been carrying it about my person at all times ever since. This morning, however, I received an urgent phone call that my safe had been broken into but nothing was taken. I got dressed in a hurry and came here. I need your help Mr. Holmes. The thief or thieves now know that the tiara is not kept inside the safe and I fear they will come after me next."

Sherlock nodded and reached out a hand for the red case. Mr. Hardy placed it into Sherlock's palm and heaved a deep sigh.

"The administrator of Signora Montifiore's inheritance has been notified of the recent developments and will arrive in London tomorrow. He will take repossession of the item and we shall be safe. I only need you to look after it until tomorrow morning. I shall come by again at the same hour and pick it up." With this Mr. Hardy got up from the chair, visibly relieved, and turned to go.

"Thank you Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock was already back in deep thought and didn't hear, so I shook hands with Mr. Hardy and accompanied him to the door, exchanging a few more words until his cab pulled onto the kerb.

XXX

Safely back inside our quarters and away from the rain and storm, I looked over at my friend who was still sitting in the same position on his chair, the velvet case in one hand and the forefinger of the other stilling his lips. I knew better than to disturb his train of thought right now and took my tea upstairs to my room. When I got back downstairs half an hour later, Sherlock was lying on the couch and the case was nowhere to be seen.

"What did you do with the tiara?" I sat down in the chair Mr. Hardy had vacated earlier.

"It's safe." I knew not to probe any further, because if Sherlock had wanted to tell me, he'd have done so already. His eyes were closed and his face turned towards the ceiling. I couldn't prevent my eyes from straying across his face. I knew this face so well by now and yet it never ceased to fascinate me. Everytime I looked at my friend, I discovered something new that intrigued me, some line or crease I hadn't yet paid attention to, the way his hair would frame his face or a new set of the jawline. Sometimes my eyes would betray me and stray further along his body. I knew that my feelings for him had long since crossed the boundaries of friendship but I couldn't stop myself. Ever since we had first met, Sherlock had ruled my thoughts. Not a day went by, when my life didn't revolve around some case we were working on, some adventure we had braved or some words of his that kept on circling in my head. I hardly managed to lie to myself anymore that these thoughts and feelings were nothing out of the ordinary. By now I found myself, more often than not, glancing at Sherlock for the sheer pleasure of taking in his stride, his coat and his smirk.

I sat with Sherlock for another hour, reading a book, while he pondered and then picked up his violin again, to finish the piece he'd started earlier. The rest of the day was spent in a leisurely fashion. Sherlock went out in the early afternoon and returned in time for dinner. We sat down together and I was secretly hoping that Sherlock would let me in on what he'd been doing all afternoon.

"So, that tiara," I started, although I was fairly sure he didn't want to talk about it, "do you think someone will break in tonight and try and steal it?" I wasn't too fond of the thought of someone breaking into the apartment at night, not just for fear of my own well-being, but also for Mrs. Hudson's, who, while being accustomed to a certain amount of violence, shouldn't knowingly be put into any danger.

"It's not in the apartment." Sherlock looked up at me from his plate and smirked. He knew exactly I was taking the scenic route to try and get him to tell me, where he had stored it. I grinned back at him, to show him I knew that he knew. Sherlock's eyes focussed back on his plate and he shook his head slightly from side to side, indicating that he considered my attempt more than feeble. I wasn't disappointed. I knew Sherlock trusted me infinitely and his unwillingness to tell me where he'd hidden the treasure, was only to protect me from a possible attack. If I knew nothing, I couldn't blab.

XXX

The next morning I woke to the sound of a door being slammed and a frustrated shout. I scrambled out of bed and quickly put a dressing gown over my pyjamas. When I got downstairs, Sherlock was pacing the living room, already fully dressed and in a state of extreme agitation. When he saw me, he gave another inarticulate shout.

"What?" My eyes followed his pacing figure. "What is it?"

"The tiara." Sherlock turned on me, with his hands balled into fists and I took a step back. It looked almost as if he was going to attack me. "It's gone."

I looked at him nonplussed. How could that have happened? I know that to steal something Sherlock had hidden, one would have to be exceedingly clever … or actually be privy to where he'd put it.

"How?" The moment I uttered the word, I knew the question was idiotic. If Sherlock knew how it had been stolen, he'd have gotten it back by now.

"I mean, that's impossible, right?" I tried to correct myself.

"Well, obviously it's not, is it? Otherwise it would still be where I left it, wouldn't it?" Sherlock was already reaching boiling point again. His patience was as short as a Japanese Haiku. He picked up the book I had been reading yesterday and threw it across the room.

"The case was safely hidden and yet …"

Sherlock picked up another book and threw it at the floor. I grabbed at his arm to prevent him from picking up a coffee mug and throwing that too.

"Sherlock, calm down. We need to stay rational and think about how to get the tiara back before Mr. Hardy turns up, alright." Sherlock's eyes travelled from his arm, where my hand lay, up to my face, searching my eyes. I never quite knew what he was hoping to find in there, but I suppose that seeing his brilliance reflected in me, somehow amplified it. I quietly treasured those looks, since they furnished me with the opportunity to dive directly through his eyes into the man himself. I always thought that these moments made him more human to me than any words could have done. Ever since Sherlock had returned to me, our time together had felt even more precious and the looks he gave me produced a burning sensation in my stomach I couldn't quench. I knew for sure that Sherlock could not feel anything akin to what I felt and that his nature would prevent him from understanding my sentiment towards him. Therefore, I had decided to simply enjoy the sensations I experienced whenever he was around and otherwise keep quiet about it. I let go of his arm.

"Listen, we've got to think. What are the options? Number one, someone discovered the hiding place by accident," here Sherlock gave a derisive snort, "and took the tiara. Two, someone followed you when you hid it and had an easy time of stealing it. Three, you forgot where you've put it. I'd rule that one out. Maybe … maybe that administrator of Signora Montifiore came to London a day early to try and steal the tiara, so that he could cash in on the insurance money. So, what we have to do is to…" I didn't really know where I was going with this and had to stop. I looked up at Sherlock, whose eyes were fixed on mine. If I hadn't known that he didn't do emotions, I could have sworn he enjoyed it when I was making deductions. His look unsettled me even further and I felt the heat rising in my cheeks. My mind was desperately searching for an end to my previous chain of thought.

"We will have to tell Mr. Hardy that it's been stolen and ask him to give us time to recover it." Sherlock's eyes left mine and he turned towards the door.

"I suppose that won't be much of a problem. Here he is."

He was right. A second later the doorbell rang and Mr. Hardy was trudging up the stairs and into our living room. What followed was a highly uncomfortable discussion, in which we had to explain, why the tiara had been stolen from under our noses and that we had no idea of how to get it back – yet. Mr. Hardy was shocked at first, then angry, then furious. He shouted at Sherlock about how he should have believed the papers, when they said he was a nutcase. A sentiment, which led me to shout at Mr. Hardy, about how I would kick his sorry ass all the way down the stairs, into the street and then back up to that filthy casino of his he still dared to call a bank. In the end Mrs. Hudson had to break up the fight and Mr. Hardy left in a huff, after we had assured him that we would do everything possible to recover the lost jewel. I was still pacing the room, angry and frustrated at everyone and everything, when Sherlock pulled on his coat and pointed to me to do the same.

"Where are we going?" I don't know how many times I asked this question and didn't get an answer, but this time Sherlock seemed to be in a good mood and complied with my request.

"We are going to see Signor Bellini." I sighed, because this answer left me just as bewildered as I had been before.


	2. Chapter 2

Blog entry no.2

It turned out that Signor Bellini was Signora Montifiore's administrator and had arrived at London Heathrow early in the morning on his flight from Milan. As soon as I laid eyes on the elderly, grey-haired gentleman, there was no doubt in my mind that Signor Bellini had absolutely nothing to do with the whole thing. I could see neither malice nor trickery in this man. This didn't stop Sherlock from interrogating him thoroughly, implying more than once that he believed Signor Bellini to be the driving force behind the robbery. In the end, as was Sherlock's custom, he gave the man his absolution and grinned broadly as we both left the hotel.

"What are you smiling at?" I was rather angry at Sherlock for grilling this poor old man to the bone.

"Oh, well, I had to be hard on him, didn't I? Otherwise he wouldn't have told us everything he knew so quickly and consicely. Of course he has nothing to do with the whole thing. But I think that this little intermezzo may have moved us a step in the right direction."

"What? How?" Sherlock smiled at me and waved down a cab without answering. I hate it when he does that.

A short ride took us back to Baker Street, where we whiled away the afternoon until Sherlock decided it was time to get down to the nub of the matter. Another cab ride took us downtown and it was only when we stepped out of the taxi in front of the Alderman Bank, that I caught an inkling of where this was heading. Sherlock was going to put Mr. Hardy through the same interrogation he had performed on Signor Bellini. The look on my face must have betrayed my thoughts, because Sherlock smiled at me. Sometimes I felt as if there was a certain amount of pride in those smiles he gave me, whenever I managed to keep up with his lightning speed thinking, until I reminded myself that it was probably condescencion.

"Are we meeting with Mr. Hardy?" I wanted to at least get some information out of Sherlock, before the case went any further. I might as well have talked to the sliding doors at the entrance of the Alderman bank. He never disclosed information until at least one part of the mystery had been solved, sometimes he didn't let me in on the case until it was fully wrapped. I shook my head at the pointed silence, while Sherlock led me round the right side of the building and we waited until everyone had left the bank. Mr. Hardy, as was probably his custom, was the last one to go and as he bid his farewell to the security guard locking the door behind him, we followed on his trail. Lucky for us it was getting dark quite quickly, so that Mr. Hardy wouldn't have noticed us following him, even if he had suspected anything. His briefcase was swinging by his side, as if he didn't have a care in the world and had not just been robbed of a priceless jewel entrusted in his care. Sherlock threw me another pointed glance, as Mr. Hardy made his way not in the direction of his home, but into a rather disreputable part of town. Soon the streets emptied and we had to fall further and further behind, in fear of Mr. Hardy noticing us. He had started to turn around at strategic intervals and we had to hide more than once from his furtive glances.

At one point Sherlock pulled me into a narrow passageway, leading up to a small backlot. As we stood next to each other in the dark, I was strangely aware of his body next to mine. His breathing, gentle as it was, rushed in my ears like a turbine. His head was stretched sideways towards the corner, as he checked on Mr. Hardy's progress and I could see the tendons in his neck straining with the effort. I closed my eyes in an attempt to rid myself of the image of Sherlock's skin, leading from the neck into the collar of his shirt and didn't reopen them until I felt the tug of a hand on my sleeve, signalling me that it was safe to pick up the chase again. A few streets further into this pit of hell, Mr. Hardy stopped. He took a quick look at his watch, clearly waiting for someone. Again we stood nearby watching, waiting for the solution of this puzzle.

A car pulled slowly into view and a large man dressed in a sharp black suit exited it. There was a short exchange, at the end of which Mr. Hardy opened his briefcase and took from it the same red velvety case, we had seen not a day before. The man in the black suit examined the content of the case and then signalled towards the car. This time a woman emerged from its interior. A rather large woman, dressed in a flowing gown, attired with jewels around her neck and rings adorning her every finger. Mr. Hardy kissed the hand she proffered and then was handed a briefcase exactly like his, which he quickly took and examined. Satisfied with the content, he made to take his leave. I looked up at Sherlock, wondering when he was intending to step in, when I saw him moving. His extensive strides quickly took him to the scene. I had to take two steps for every one of his and as we stepped from the shadows into the light of the car's headlights, all eyes were on us.

"Well, good evening Mr. Hardy. I hadn't expected to run into you here. What a coincidence." The man in the black suit had drawn a gun and again I cursed myself for not bringing mine. But Sherlock had evidently not been that forgetful, as he took his hand out of his pocket holding my handgun and pointing it at the thug.

"Oh, I really don't think so. Now, Lady Henderson hand over the tiara and no one will get hurt." I almost laughed at all the bewildered faces around us, trying to work out what the hell was going on.

"Really? Mr. Hardy? You didn't think that I would realise the care you took in looking dishevelled when you arrived on my doorstep. Clearly you had instructed your driver to drop you off a few streets away from Baker Street, had opened your shirtsleeves to make me believe you had dressed in a hurry. But tell me, who dresses in a hurry and takes the time to knot his tie in a Windsor. And the splattering on your trouserlegs? Has clearly been applied by stepping repeatedly into a puddle. This is not the splashmarks left by walking along the pavement. So, clearly you had come to me under false pretenses. But why? Well, I found out the next day when I went to retrieve the tiara from its hiding place. Now, when I hide something I consider it safely hidden. So I knew I had been followed and the only person who knew I was going to hide something valuable was you. Now, you would never do something as dangerous as that, unless you already had a buyer. But who would by a tiara that could be recognised everyhwere? That could never be worn in public? Either someone who was just after the pure value of the stones, which would be stupid, considering the effort it takes to get one's hand on something like that, or – and this is where Lady Henderson comes in – someone who wants to own the tiara, just for the sake of owning it. I made a few inquiries and was told that you, milady, had come down all the way from Edinburgh yesterday. Now what a curious thing to do, coming down to London for no apparent reason and being such a devoted collector of rare and precious jewels, too. And here you are, in a dark backstreet, clutching at this case as if it was worth more than your life. Well, let me tell you that it isn't. Mr. Hardy here has been more than creative. He replaced the real tiara with an excellent copy he'd had made. This is the beauty of it. He was going to give the real jewel back to Signora Montifiore and whenever you discovered the truth, you wouldn't even be able to complain, because you had no right to have the jewel in your possession in the first place."

At this Mr. Hardy dropped the briefcase and lunged at Sherlock, trying to wrestle the gun out of his hand. I immediately ran forward to help my friend. A shot rang out in the dark and then another. I felt something hit my arm like a whip. The force of it made me stumble back a few feet. I saw Sherlock turn, his eyes widened.

"John. NO."

Sherlock's face was aghast with shock, as I went down. All I remember now was the crash of my hip on the pavement and then of my upper body following its lead. A deafening noise rushed into my ears. Shouting and gunfire, the sound of heavily clad feet stomping on hardened earth and helicopters overhead. I could hear artillery and bombs exploding nearby. Then a distant ringing replaced the gunfire and it grew louder and louder until the noise seemed to fill my entire head. A high-pitched whine, penetrating every thought and every fibre of my being. Then I heard voices again. No - one voice. Sherlock's.

"John. Stay with me, alright. You've been shot, but it's alright. As far as I can see, it just caught your arm. Don't faint. I need you to stay with me, now. Can you stand up? Can you do that for me? John!"

I tried to open my eyes, but my lids seemed to want to save me from seeing the world. I forced them open and Sherlock's face swam into view.

"That's right, John. You're doing good." I felt strong hands gripping my left arm, avoiding the right one where I'd been hit, and curling around my waist, trying to wrench me off the cold stone pavement. I willed my legs into supporting me. My eyes opened fully and I found myself face to face with Sherlock. He had one arm around my back, trying to steady me. His eyes burning into mine. They were filled with a mixture of fear, worry and … empathy. Did he know that me getting shot at, had made me relive the war, the wound, the fear? My eyes searched the surroundings, trying to assert that we were not still in danger, but all I could make out where headlights disappearing into the distance. Sherlock followed my gaze.

"John. They're gone." His voice was low and strong. My gaze had slipped down towards his lips, but was immediately dragged back up towards his eyes again as he spoke. My legs felt stronger now and a slow tingling crept all the way from my feet towards my head, giving me goosebumps on my scalp. I could feel Sherlock's breath on my skin, he was so close. One of his hands came up to my face, to brush some specks of dirt off my cheek from where I had fallen. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, despite the heavy coat. I could feel his eyes scalding me. Those storm-tossed eyes, always looking slightly upwards into mine, although Sherlock was a good four inches taller than me. His dark curls were almost touching his brows and I found myself tracing every inch of Sherlock's face with my gaze. Trying to understand why I, who had never been drawn to men, found myself so utterly fascinated by this human being. At that moment I knew for sure what I had suspected ever since we'd first met. That I would spend my life with this man, no matter what anyone thought and even if Sherlock never so much as held my hand, I would never be able to love another. When my eyes returned to Sherlock's, I realised that he had in all likelihood been reading me like an open book and was now contemplating the outcome of his deductions. In my still dazed state, I realised that my friend had not looked away, nor had his hold on me lessened. As our eyes read each other again, I felt Sherlock's arms tightening around my waist and then he leaned even closer and touched my lips with his. It wasn't a true kiss and even if it had been, I was too stunned to react. He had kissed at me, rather than with me. His cheeks reddened slightly, as he pulled away again and I met his gaze. There was confusion in it and a little fear. The great Shelrock Holmes was actually scared that I would push him away. Not wanting him to regret what he'd done, I reached a hand up to his face and rested my palm against the side of his neck, running a thumb across his jawline. Then I pulled him close and this time both of us joined in the kiss. I had no idea whether Sherlock had ever kissed before or, more accurately, had done any research in that area and was rather surprised to find him parting his lips for me, letting our tongues meet in a gentle caress. That was when I stopped thinking altogether and slung my arms around his back, pressing our bodies together. Sherlock grabbed my face with both hands, holding it like a precious vase. I could feel his muscles moving, as I slipped my hands underneath his coat and jacket and ran them up his sinewy back, as far as I could reach. When he finally broke the kiss, I felt bereft. As if the lightbulb on my nightstand had suddenly burned through and left me sitting in the dark.

"Sherlock." I breathed, unable to string any of the million thoughts that were running through my head into a coherent sentence.

"We need to get your wound looked at." And with that he turned and walked towards the main road to get a cab.

XXX

When we arrived back home in our cosy little quarters at Baker Street an hour later, I was at a loss. The wound had indeed been only shallow and the bullet had not got stuck. A few stitches were required, but that was all. I had refused any painkillers and had been sent home on the premise that I would return tomorrow, to get the dressing changed. I had protested that such a simple task was well within my abilities to perform on myself, but the doctor at the hospital had insisted. Not wanting to delay our return to Baker Street any longer, I had acquiesced.

And now I was sitting in my usual chair by the fire in our living room but didn't know how to bridge the uneasy silence that stretched between us. Sherlock had gone so far as to make me a cup of tea, something he would never do under normal circumstances. But these weren't normal circumstances. We both knew that sooner or later, we would have to face up to what had happened earlier, but neither of us was keen to be the first to mention it. When Sherlock handed me the tea, the cup rattled rather tellingly on its saucer. So he was just as shaken by the kiss as I was. Being honest with myself, I knew that I had wanted this to happen for quite a while but had truly never expected Sherlock to entertain such feelings for me. Then again, knowing Sherlock, the kiss might have been just another calculated trick of his to prevent me from falling into PTSD again and had never been a true kiss at all, but just a cleverly instigated chess move. Frustrating prick.

"It wasn't."

My eyes snapped up and focussed on Sherlock. Had I spoken out loud? He wasn't looking at me, but sat with his fingers steepled in his "Thinking chair".

"What?" I thought I might as well go with not having heard correctly.

"It wasn't a trick and I didn't plan it. It just happened. And I think we both wanted it to happen." He was doing the thing again. That thing, where he followed my train of thought simply by observing the focus of my eyes and the way they moved around the room. I gave up pretending not to have heard or not to know what the hell he was talking about. Sherlock got up from his chair and turned his back towards me to try and hide the insecurity that lay in his voice. I had never seen Sherlock insecure at anything, but I guessed he was a little out of his depth here. I got up, too, and moved closer to my friend, still standing with his back towards me. For a long moment neither of us knew how to go on from here. Then I lifted my right hand and laid in on Sherlock's upper arm, squeezing it very gently and, as I hoped, reassuringly. His head turned slightly and he looked down at the touch and then, turning around further, finally into my eyes. Ever since we first met, he'd been able to read my eyes without effort. But this time I needed to help him along. My hand went up to his face again and I traced an inquisitive finger along his brow and down his cheek. Then the urge to kiss him again grew to strong to resist and I leaned in, pressing my lips to his, holding his head in place with my hand. All the tension seemed to wash off him in an instant and he moaned into my mouth as our lips parted. This time the kiss was less tender, more urgent. Our hands tried to grab at every part of each other that we could reach and the longer it lasted, the more Sherlock's inhibitions were overcome. I knew he was passionate about a lot of things, usually connected with triple murders, clues and the hunt for the culprit. Now I experienced this passion applied in a different manner, in the way he pressed my body against his and teased me with his tongue. We stumbled against the the couch and he almost fell on top of me, only paying heed to my injured arm at the very last second and flinging out his hands to prevent himself of accidentally hurting me. His breathing was going ragged and his eyes were almost black from want. I was even worse off. My excitement was showing in a rather obvious way and I almost whimpered when his lips left mine even for a second.

"Bedroom." He growled and this time I wasn't even angry at being ordered about by Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Chapter 3

Blog entry no.3

Postscriptum

So how did Sherlock know about the tiara being a fake? I teased him that he'd only guessed and had gotten lucky. His eyes flashed at me in mock anger at this ridiculous suggestion. Apparently, he had examined the tiara before placing it in hiding and he had found tiny traces of a silicon used by goldsmiths to make duplicates of rings and other jewels by creating a mould. And Lady Henderson? Well, the homeless network seems to connect all the way up to the highest spheres of society. Which translates to him not wanting me to know about his informer, although we were now even closer than just colleagues and friends. Frustrating prick.


End file.
